Fiends Like Us
by Hidden Terminal
Summary: A series of entries recorded by a fiend drug addict, Fiends Like Us is presented as if it were written on a Vault-Tec Terminal. The story is dark, gritty, and unforgiving. Getting into New Vegas is easy, but getting out is a different story.
1. Chapter 1

Vault-TecOS v.86

[c]2076 Vault-Tec

User log:

Administrator (Vault-Tec ID 887-001)

Open_file: JOURNAL_1

Opening File . . .

Success!

Date Recorded: 8/11/2282

" It's so depressing … this place? Why would Motor-runner make us live here … safety? Safety is a dream thought up by some pre-war dirt bag. What I would give to leave this disgusting vault, I would do anyone, give anything- except just one hydra, just to get me on my way. Motor-Runner uses this _hole_ like a prison … except instead of hard steel bars, he uses chems and deceit. He makes those who can fight, kill. Everyone else- myself included- are nothing but slaves to Motor-Runner's lieutenants. Cook-cook uses me a lot … almost every time we line up, he points at me with a grin only an insane man could conjure. I try to put my mind somewhere else, but he tells me to struggle. If I don't, he burns me with his cigarette until I try and stop him. Cook-cook's scarred hands grab me; his body feels like that of a super mutant, and his touch is no less painful than a bark scorpions' sting. Once he's caught me, once he's … _using_ me … I grab the time-hardened cloth sweatshirt I've worn since adolescence; my hands creep up over my chest. I probe around for the warm metal of my necklace, eyes shut tightly. I grasp the small silver pendant in my palms, and remember when I was just a little girl living out in Primm. That was back when my things were my own, my life was my own. I remember playing on the old roller coaster behind the Bison Steve Hotel. On some days, I'd make it all the way to the top. From there, I could see New Vegas. How I longed to go there … I would talk to all the travelers who would pass through on their way down the Long 15, hoping to find one who would take me with them. An innocent girl would do no good on the road, and I knew it. It didn't stop me from asking though.

It is the memories of those long, warm days back in Primm with my father and brother that get me through the misery of my life. My father passed away the week before I left for New Vegas, but it is my brother who I think about when the chems run dry. Alec was his name, and he was always looking out for what was right. Every morning, Alec was the first one up helping dad fix broken tech. And when raiders would wander too close to town, Alec was always ready to fight, or die to protect us- me, in particular. If only he could save me from this horrible place and take me back home … if only he didn't join the goddamn Mojave Express. That fool boy, he knew the life of a courier was no life of luxury. But then again … he must be doing better than this- this wretched squalor. My life now is nothing but a shame; I ran out of pity for even myself, and now all I care about is drugs and distant memories. Sometimes I think that even if Alec were dead, I'd envy him. My life is a living hell, and yet I'm too much of a coward to end it all. Self-pity never helped anyone, so I suppose I should just get on with it.

After my father died, and once my brother left … I had no reason to stay in Primm. I thought, through some twisted fantasy gone wrong, that everything was better in New Vegas. The nights I spent sitting on the peak of the roller coaster hill were some of the best of my life. I would look out at the New Vegas skyline, and dream that I was one of the chic mistresses of the fancy, high-class businessmen who make their living on the strip, be it through entertainment, organized crime, or well, anything else. I thought money, looks, and class were all that mattered. I would dream of who my latest boyfriend would be, what kind of big deals he would be running, what kind of fancy liqueur's we'd be drinking … all shallow and lifeless things that travelers slipped into my mind over the years. Their poison words turned my thoughts sour … those cocky, charming merchants had no idea what they were doing to me … that once innocent girl, now stashed away underground with nothing to look forward to but a dirty needle filled with the euphoric venom I care more about than life itself.

I hear Cook-cook coming … and I know what he wants. I can't say no to him. Hell, if I did? It wouldn't matter … he'd probably like it. I may as well be a good little whore, and give that disgusting pile of shit in metal armor no reason to burn me. Not that it will make a difference … atleast I'll get some hydra. Just listen to me … I deserve this. I hoped for a high-class man with big business under his arm, and got a worthless excuse for a man with a flamer in each hand. I deserve this. –Sandra, Vault 3."

Would you like to close file? [y]/[n]

Closing file …

Administrator(Hidden Terminal)

Opening_File: MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR

Opening file …

Success!

Date Recorded: 12/16/2010

"Hey fellow writers! If you love the Fallout series as much as I do, then you'll notice that this is a journal entry from one of Fallout: New Vegas's Fiends. I hope the whole 'command prompt' aspect to the writing helped 'pull you in'. I've spent hours searching for every last hidden terminal all over the fallout universe, looking for everything from hilarious stories to interesting plot references. I figured that there would be no better way to deliver my own tale! As a newer writer, I'm definitely looking for input on how my writing can be improved. I will reference your reviews before writing new material, and hopefully your comments will make me a better writer. Also, I would like to know what the community thinks about my particular style. After talking to some friends, there are mixed opinions. I figured asking a community of skilled writers would be a bit more appropriate than asking a few science fiction fans. Looking forward to your comments! –The Hidden Terminal"


	2. Chapter 2

Vault-TecOS v.86

[c]2076 Vault-Tec

User log:

Administrator (Vault-Tec ID 887-001)

Open_file: JOURNAL_2

Opening File . . .

Success!

Date Recorded: 8/13/2282

"The whirring of the generators is beginning to get to me again … this always happens when I've gone without jet for too long. The shakes you get from jet are worse than anything, that's why most fiends are jet-heads. And that's why there's always a shortage.

The warriors are usually the ones who get all the jet, but recently, there's been enough for the 'workers'. Motor-Runner is running out of thugs, and the NCR knows it. Every day, NCR snipers inch closer and closer to our vault. Needless to say, everyone has been on edge.

Driver Nephi leads most of the warriors who fight the NCR. We always used our numbers to swarm anyone who dared attack us, but lately, that strategy hasn't been working. We are fighting a real army now … and Nephi isn't sure how to win this one.

Nephi is the biggest, nastiest, and meanest of the jet-heads. He is both cruel and intelligent, a surprisingly deadly combination. He uses a heavy steel golf club to crush the skulls of our intruders. In fact, that's where he got his title. He supposedly hit the eyeball of some NCR officer 200 yards over the wall, straight into the courtyard of Camp McCarran!

Driver Nephi summoned thirty of us to the warrior camp to the south of the vault. We were never told to go out of vault 3; something was happening, and knowing Nephi, it was almost definitely not good. Lena, a young girl around twelve, was crying silently as we were herded down the dank tunnels leading to the surface. I pulled her in close, and stroked her long, black hair.

In the distance, I heard alarms sounding, and the sharp sound of metal grinding against metal. The vault door was opening. The sunlight was too much to bear at first; I pulled my hood over my head, doing my pathetic best to keep the desert sun from shining.

It was the first time I left the vault in what must've been months. The dry desert air carried with it the familiar hue of scorched earth, one of the many reminders that we stood on what was once (and is once again) a warzone. As my eyes began to adjust to the light, I realized that we were surrounded by armed fiends. They looked at us with disgust; a welcomed change of pace from the usual lust-ridden gaze. Without saying anything, they began to make their way through the rubble.

I stood in awe, still trying to figure out what was going on, when a dull thud followed by sharp pain fell on my shoulder. The fiend who was bringing up the rear bashed me with his rifle. Asshole. I hurried ahead to catch up with the crowd.

In about ten minutes, we reached the warrior camp … if you could even call it that. The dwellings were filled with corpses, victims of NCR battles made worse by our shoddy surgeries. It was more of a graveyard. Driver Nephi stood among it all, his bloodied golf club resting on his shoulder.

"When you crawled out of bed to return to your wretched lives today, you were more useless than the mud on my boots." He snarled, twisting the club in his hands.

"You have been summoned here, not as whores, but as warriors. You are now my children; my warriors, they are your brothers and sisters."

He smiled; his blackened teeth and bleeding gums revealed from behind his dry, cracked lips. As much as I hate being Cook-Cook's, being Driver Nephi's will be no better … at least I won't be a whore. But is murder any better?

As I pondered the moral ethics of murder and sex, Nephi continued his speech.

"… Here are the tools of your trade. Your _new_ trade, anyhow." he said as he walked off into one of the dwellings. A pile of rusted blades, splintered bats, and old plumbing lay in front of us. I grasped the hilt of an old machete. It was heavier than I expected, and the blade was riddled with notches and cracks from past … _accomplishments_.

Driver Nephi wasn't looking to us as warriors, though even cannon fodder is better than the life of a whore. And maybe if I'd kill enough NCR, Nephi would let me be more than just an expendable grunt. That's what I'd hoped, anyhow.

I looked around at the others … they were noticeably scared. Most had never held a weapon before, and those who have were certainly not accustomed to using the trash we were given.

I wandered around in the crowd of my worn out sisters. Some were shedding tears, others were mumbling angrily. But one girl stood out … Lena. She stood over the pile of shoddy weapons, her hands trembling. On top of the pile, gleaming in the desert sun was a blood-polished combat knife.

Tears ran down the poor girls' face, as she fought to reach for the weapon … but something in her would not allow it. I was as a loss for words … something that could be described as both pity and envy drove me to go and pick up the knife. I grasped Lena's hand, and curled her fingers around the hilt of the blade. I looked deep into her brown eyes, and nodded.

She smiled after that, and I didn't understand why. Maybe she needed someone who cared, or even just someone who would acknowledge her. I mean, I understand what she's going through … I just don't understand why she gave me such a warm smile when she has such a … painful … life.

Then, Lena did the unthinkable.

"Thank you for opening my eyes." She whispered softly. She then turned around, and began to run … only she wasn't running away. She was running at Driver Nephi!

"No, wait!" I shouted, stumbling forward to catch her … but the damage was done. Lena was rushing at Nephi, her long black hair trailing behind her. Her pale, delicate hand held the blood-covered blade, poised to strike. Nephi wound up, and struck Lena in the temple … what used to be her temple. On the ground, a deep crimson puddle of warm blood began to form around Lena's head.

"May this be a warning to the lot of you … don't … _fuck …_ with … me. Clear enough? Good." Spouted Driver Nephi, a sick smile torn across his face. At this point, I was sobbing over Lena's body.

"I … I'm sorry. I didn't tell you to do this, you stupid little girl … I'm _sorry_." I sobbed, turning the girls head so that her wound would be hidden. I took her knife, and stuffed it into my sweatshirt, glancing around to make sure no one saw. Nobody did.

I stood up, standing over the dead girl. My knees were painted red, and small droplets of blood dotted my sweatshirt. In my left hand, I held the most power I've held in years … a worn machete. I am now one of Nephi's warriors. Am I proud? No … I hate myself for it. Lena, the only symbol of innocence in my life, was murdered right before my eyes. The worst part is, I can only blame myself for her death.

With all of my remaining energy, I stumbled into a dwelling made of the remnants of a pre-war car. I rested my machete on the dashboard, and looked out over the desert horizon.

I took a hit of jet, and got comfortable on the bare, box-spring seat. As I began to drift off to sleep, I half whispered, "One day … Alec will come. He'll save me. He has to …" –Sandra, Warrior Camp"

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Closing file …


End file.
